


The Secret Pilgrim

by ariel2me



Series: Fathers [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-15
Updated: 2014-06-15
Packaged: 2018-02-04 18:28:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1788868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariel2me/pseuds/ariel2me
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was a son before he was a father. Steffon Baratheon, four snapshots.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Secret Pilgrim

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written before the release of The World of Ice and Fire, and it's not canon-compliant about the death of Steffon's father.

**(i)**

When Steffon was nine, his father took him to tour the Stormlands. They rode for weeks on end, stopping to rest not at grand castles to be feasted by grand lords, but at small keeps and modest inns along the way.

”This is your land, Steffon. And these people are your people. _Your_ responsibility,” his father told him, again and again during that journey. The land did not trouble the boy much. It seemed like such a grand adventure, all the crooks and corners of earth there for him to explore and discover, like a challenging puzzle or a grand mystery to be solved.

The people, on the other hand, had seemed like a harder proposition. Steffon was an only child who had learned the knack to _appear_ to invite the world in to please his elders, but really, he was most content in his own company, tinkering with his own thoughts.

His father died the year after they came back from that journey. Lord Baratheon must have known about the sickness growing inside him back then, when he took his son to inspect his inheritance. “At least Lord Baratheon had time to put things in order,” Steffon had overheard another lady comforting his mother. “At least he had time to prepare himself, and to prepare his son and his wife for his death. That’s something to thank the gods for.”

For a moment, Rhaelle Targaryen looked like she was about to slap the lady in question. But then she must have reminded herself that that particular lady had lost her own husband unexpectedly many years before, when his horse had suddenly taken fright and bolted, dragging its fallen rider for miles and miles before his body was found. Lady Baratheon embraced the lady, who then wept loudly and copiously as if _she_ was the one grieving for a recently departed husband. Rhaelle herself stood dry-eyed and composed throughout.

His mother only ever did her crying in the privacy of her own bedchamber, when she was convinced no one was watching.

 _I wasn’t prepared_ , Steffon protested, but never out loud. _Father didn’t tell me he was going to die._

But he must have known, surely? He must have known what that extended trip through the Stormlands with his father meant. He must have known that all the talks about “ _when your father gets better_ ” were merely kindly lies and comforting words meant to placate a boy.

But he had never actually been told; even if he had, in a way, guessed the truth. Later, when he was old enough to start thinking about marriage, about fathering his own children, Steffon vowed that he would not leave his children in the dark.

Then again, who could say that his end would be similar to his father’s? Perhaps it would be more like the husband of that unfortunate lady. That man must have had no inkling, when he mounted his horse that morning as he had done countless other mornings in the past, that it would turn out to be his final ride, his last day among the living.

 _You live too much within yourself, Steffon. That is why you’re haunted by these morbid thoughts_ , his mother complained. Steffon disagreed. It was only sensible to be prepared for any eventuality, even your own death.

 

**(ii)**

When his oldest son Robert was nine, Steffon took the boy to the Eyrie to be fostered with Lord Arryn. It was not an unusual arrangement, something done by almost every lord in almost every castle in the Seven Kingdoms. Lord Stark of Winterfell had already sent his second son to the Eyrie the year before, and the Stark boy filled the bulk of Robert’s letters home. _Ned and I did this_ , _Ned and I went there_ , _Ned and I saw that_ , and on and on.

Robert had always been so very eager for companion. He was almost never alone, forever bounding somewhere for another adventure with another set of friends. He could spend the morning staging mock battles in the courtyard with the sons of lords and ladies, and the afternoon running around the woods playing monsters and maidens with the children of the cooks and the kitchen staff, and he was equally happy and at ease in both circles. And Robert had a talent for drawing people to him, children _and_ adults.

It seemed almost incomprehensible to Steffon that his son, his flesh and blood, would turn out to be this charming, gregarious creature who seemed to genuinely love the company of others, and who had a knack of making people love his company in return. _It’s a good thing,_ Steffon told himself _._ His son would live a happy life; Robert seemed to be so at ease with the world, so certain of his own place in it, so convinced of his own lovability.

And yet, and yet, and yet … there was also something frantic in Robert’s constant search for company, Steffon thought, as Robert grew older. It was as if Robert could not stand to be alone, that his own company was never enough. Steffon’s mother had been worried that her son lived too much within himself; Steffon was concerned that his firstborn would never learn that there were times when your own company had to suffice, that you had to learn to be at peace with yourself before you could be truly at peace with the world.

 

**(iii)**

Harbert Baratheon was a second son. He had never wed, or ever been betrothed. Never even fathered a bastard, as far as Steffon knew. (Steffon dared not wonder if his uncle had ever lain with a woman, or with anyone.) To his nephew, Harbert was a fixture at Storm’s End, a steady, dependable presence who had served as his older brother’s castellan, and stayed on when the brother died and his young son became Lord of Storm’s End.

Steffon had never wondered much about Uncle Harbert’s deepest thoughts, in truth, until he had his own second son to worry about. “Did it ever bother you, my father doing everything first?” He asked Uncle Harbert, tentatively, not quite looking him in the eyes, for they were not really the sort of men who spoke of matters such as this.

His uncle coughed, once. Shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Stared at the castle that his older brother had inherited and been the lord and master of. “It’s not the same,” Harbert finally replied, understanding the reason behind Steffon’s question. “Your father and I were not born a year apart. He was thirteen when I was born. He always seemed like a god to me. I admired him, worshipped him, really. I could never envy him anything.”

“I don’t think it’s about envy,” Steffon said, bristling on Stannis’ behalf.

Uncle Harbert considered. “No, it’s not about envy. It’s worse, really. He’s measuring his own worth against something that he does not even hold in a particularly high regard. Stannis has not truly understood this yet, but he will, one day, and then he will judge himself harshly for it.”

“I wish Robert and Stannis would make more allowances for one another,” Steffon said. _Would see each other in a better light_ , he added silently. But he had told his sons this again and again, and so had their mother. It never seemed to work.

“Your father was always kind to me. He cared, and he showed it,” Uncle Harbert said.

“And you think Robert does not do the same with Stannis?”

“They are both hard on each other, we know that. And my brother never saw me as a rival just waiting for the chance to best him. How could he? I was so much younger than him.”

 

**(iv)**

This child felt heavier on his arms when his wife handed him to Steffon for the first time. “Is he really heavier than Robert and Stannis were, or am I getting older and weaker?” Steffon asked, not meaning it as a jape, but Cassana and Maester Cressen both laughed. It was strange, holding a newborn in his arms again, fourteen years after the last time.

Would he live long enough to see this one grow old?

“He is bigger, my lord, though the birth is easier on Lady Cassana than the older boys,” Cressen replied.

“He was so very impatient to see the world,” Cassana said.

They had agreed on Renly as the name months and months before, but later, staring at his son gurgling and making excited baby noises, Steffon wondered if Lyonel would have suited the boy better. Lyonel Baratheon, after the knight who had been called the Laughing Storm. Renly’s cries were loud enough to bring down the whole castle, but he was also an easily amused infant who seemed to find just the sight of his father’s face worthy of a smile.

At least Renly would have no real memory of his father and mother, memories that could be a source of lifelong grief and sorrow, Steffon thought, near the end, echoing that woman long ago who told Steffon’s mother that there was still something to thank the gods for, after all.

No, he knew that was a lie. There was no ‘ _at least’_. There was nothing to thank the gods for. He had betrayed his sons, and betrayed Renly perhaps worst of all, for leaving him without even a piece of his father to hold on to.


End file.
